The Motion Demon Read Online Free

stationmaster glanced at the numbers, shook his head, and continued with the questioning:
    ‘The number of the trailer?’
    ‘I don’t remember.’
    ‘That’s bad, very bad—an engine driver should know such things,’ he opined sententiously.
    ‘What is your stoker’s name?’ he asked after a brief pause.
    ‘Blazej Midget.’
    ‘The forename is correct, but the surname is wrong.’
    ‘I’ve told the truth.’
    ‘You’re mistaken; his name is Blazej Sad.’
    Grot waved his hand indifferently.
    ‘That could be. To me, his name is Midget.’
    Once again the stationmaster exchanged a meaningful glance with his companion.
    ‘The conductor’s name?’
    ‘Stanislaw Ant.’
    The examiner held back with difficulty an outburst of laughter.
    ‘Ant, you say? Ant? Ah, that’s good one! That’s fabulous— Ant?!’
    ‘Yes. Stanislaw Ant.’
    ‘No, Mr Grot. The name of the conductor of your train is Stanislaw Zywiecki. Again you are mistaken.’
    The recording clerk leaned his pomaded head towards his chief and whispered in his ear.
    ‘Stationmaster, this person is either drunk or a bit touched.’
    ‘It seems the latter,’ answered the official, clearing his throat; after which, he turned back to the culprit with a new question.
    ‘Are you married?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Did you have anything to drink before your departure?’
    ‘I detest alcohol.’
    ‘How many hours have you been at work?’
    ‘Sixteen.’
    ‘You don’t feel tired?’
    ‘Not at all.’
    ‘Why did you not stop your train four consecutive times at the designated place before a station?’
    Grot was silent. He could not, he did not want to reveal this for anything in the world.
    ‘I’m waiting for an answer.’
    The engine driver hung his head in gloom.
    The stationmaster raised himself solemnly from the desk and pronounced judgment.
    ‘Now you’ll go and get some sleep. A colleague will replace you. I’m suspending you for the time being; it’s possible that you’ll be asked back sometime in the future. Meanwhile, I would advise you to seek a doctor’s care as soon as possible. You’re seriously ill.’
    Grot turned white, he staggered. The affair took on a tragic character. From the stationmaster’s facial expression, the tone and content of his words, he realized that he was considered a madman. He understood that he had lost his position, that he had stopped being an engine driver.
    ‘Stationmaster, I am completely healthy,’ he moaned out, wringing his hands. ‘I can drive on.’
    ‘That’s out of the question, Mr Grot. I cannot entrust the fate of several hundred people to you. Do you know that you almost were the cause of a collision today? You rode up too far, reaching a point where a crossing would have occurred with the Czerniaw passenger train. If your assistant hadn’t moved back your train, a collision would surely have resulted. The already signalled-forward train arrived two minutes late. You are not fit for duty, Mr Grot. You first have to undergo treatment. Besides, we are finished. Please leave the premises.’
    With a heavy, leaden step Grot exited the room; he tramped the platform, halting and reeling like a drunkard, and dragged himself along railway warehouses.
    His skull was bursting with a dull pain, his heart sobbed despair. He had lost his post.
    It did not matter about the paltry several dozen pieces of coin, a job or a position—what mattered was the engine, without which he did not know how to live. It concerned the invaluable, solely available means with which he could grapple with space, with which he could speed to obscure distances. With the loss of his post the ground was removed from under him, and the black, fathomless abyss of a purposeless life opened up.
    Attacked by a choking pain in his larynx, he passed the warehouses; he passed the bridge, the tunnel, and mechanically went onto the tracks.
    He was already far from the station. Stumbling at every step against the timbered groundwork